


Walk Without the Sunshine

by glorious_spoon



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drinking, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 09:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8050255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: If he wants to spend the wedding getting quietly drunk in a corner, that's his own damn business.





	Walk Without the Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> Title from ["I Don't Want to Walk Without You"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9vzdtE5k4BI), recorded as a single in 1942 by Harry James with vocals by Helen Forrest.

He stands up with Daniel at the wedding, next to Daniel’s craggy dark-haired father and two cousins whose names he can’t keep straight. He claps with the others when Daniel kisses his bride, cheeks flushed, pressing his smiling mouth to Peggy’s.

(Peggy is beautiful in her peach silk suit, looking young and happy and softer than he’s used to seeing her. Or maybe that’s just the way she looks at Daniel. Jack’s pretty sure he looks at Daniel with that exact same dopey expression, but fortunately nobody’s watching him.)

He throws rice outside the church, whoops loudly when the happy couple sneaks another kiss beside their car, keeps his toast more or less classy, smiles until his face hurts, and escapes to Stark’s well-stocked wet bar at his first opportunity.

He’s done with his fourth drink and contemplating his fifth, comfortably settled into a dull, self-absorbed misery that he knows he’ll be disgusted with tomorrow morning, when a hand clamps down on his elbow.

Jack swings around, balling his fist up, and just manages to stop himself from punching Stark’s butler in the face.

Jarvis, for his part, looks remarkably unruffled. “If you would be so kind as to come with me, Agent Thompson, I believe a cup of tea is in order.”

Jack blinks, squints at him. “What?”

“Tea. A beverage served in civilized parts, sometimes accompanied by biscuits. Mrs. Jarvis has a kettle on in the kitchen.”

“I know what tea is.”

“Splendid! Come along, then.”

Jack shakes his hand off. “I said I knew what it is, not that I wanted some. I’m fine where I am. Thanks,” he adds belatedly.

Jarvis leans in, still smiling pleasantly. His voice is considerably less pleasant when he hisses in Jack’s ear. “If you think I intend to stand by and watch you make a spectacle of yourself at Miss Carter’s wedding dinner, you are sorely mistaken. Remove yourself from this chair, or I will remove you.”

“That, I’d like to see,” Jack says, tilting his head up, all lazy insolence. He feels drunk and sick and miserable, but it’s not like he doesn’t have practice with hiding that. “I thought you didn’t want a spectacle.”

“I have managed Mr. Stark for the past seven years. I assure you, Agent, that I have extensive experience in discreetly escorting intoxicated fools from public events.”

Jack thinks about pointing out that Howard Stark is a good four inches shorter and twenty pounds lighter than he is, and also, as far as he can tell, a reasonably friendly and compliant drunk—but then he happens to glance at the head table, where Daniel and Peggy have their heads leaned together, smiling in a private kind of way, their hands entwined, and all the fight just drains out of him. He doesn’t actually want to make a scene, and the longer he stays here, the more likely that’ll get.

He sighs and sets his drink down. “Fine.”

* * *

Ana Jarvis is in the kitchen, as promised, perched like a delicate bird on a high stool with a cup cradled between her fingers. She smiles up at her husband when they come in, and it’s—strange, disorienting, to see someone look at Jarvis like that. Like a man, a husband, someone who could love and be loved. “Edwin! You’ve come to join me at last. And I see you’ve brought a friend.”

“I would not use that term,” Jarvis says, before Jack can speak, but it’s not particularly hostile. Not nearly as hostile as Jack probably deserves, to be honest. “Ana, I believe you’ve met Agent Thompson.”

“Chief Thompson, actually. It’s—” he trails off, shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. Yes. We’ve met. It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Jarvis.”

She beams at him, her smile sweet and entirely unfeigned. “Oh, likewise. And you must call me Ana.”

“Sit,” Jarvis says to him, indicating a chair, and Jack drops into it, feeling more than a little like a recalcitrant schoolboy. “Do you take cream or sugar?”

“Both. Please. You really don’t have to do this, Jarvis, I can call a cab. I’m not.” To his humiliation, his eyes are suddenly burning. It’s the whiskey, mostly. Probably just as well that Jarvis dragged him out of there. It figures that a butler, especially one working for Stark, would develop a good sense of when mopey drunkenness is about to turn into a potentially embarrassing scene. “I wasn’t going to start anything.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Jarvis says, depositing a delicate bone-china cup and saucer before him. “Miss Carter would never forgive me if I allowed you to leave in this state.”

“It’s Mrs. Sousa now.”

“Ah,” Mrs. Jarvis says softly, sympathetic understanding in her voice. “This is a case of unrequited love. Peggy is a lovely girl, is she not? But there are other lovely girls.”

Jack presses his lips together, stares at his teacup, and doesn’t answer.

“Unrequited love, certainly,” says Jarvis slowly. There’s an odd note in his tone. “But not, I think, for Miss Carter.”

Jack shoves his chair back with such force that he rattles the table, sending teacup and saucer crashing to the floor in a mess of broken china and scalding liquid. He’s on his feet almost before he knows what he’s doing, blood pounding in his ears. “Carter’s a great gal, and Sousa is lucky to have her. That’s all I have to say. I’m calling a cab.”

“Sit down, Chief Thompson,” Jarvis says. He hasn’t moved, and his voice is gentle. When Jack doesn’t move, he adds, “I’ll call you a cab. In the meantime, please sit down. You’re upsetting my wife.”

Mrs. Jarvis looks startled, her eyebrows raised and her mouth a perfect O, but not particularly upset. “That’s quite all right, darling,” she says after a long moment, sliding off her stool. “But do sit down, Mr. Thompson. I’ll fetch a dustpan.”

She moves past him in a breath of light perfume and rustling silk. Jack turns to watch her go, then looks down at the smashed teacup on the floor. “Sorry about the cup,” he mutters.

“That’s quite alright. It’s not the first piece of china that’s been smashed in this kitchen, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. Mr. Stark’s budget can manage it.” Jarvis hesitates for a long moment, then adds, “I must apologize. I spoke out of turn.”

“It’s fine,” Jack says in a low voice. He steps around the mess and sits back down, feeling suddenly and comprehensively exhausted.

“No. It was both uncouth and unkind of me to speculate. I'm sorry.”

He stares at the table. “You weren't wrong.”

It's the first time he's admitted it out loud. He's not sure what compels him to do it, other than the fact that it would probably be hard for Jarvis to have a lower opinion of him than he already does. There's a certain freedom in that.

That, and who the hell else does he have to talk to? The closest he has to a confidante is Peggy, and he can’t exactly bring this up with her.

Jarvis clears his throat, but before he can speak his wife sails back into the room, dustpan in hand. “Here. Let me get that. Would you like another cup of tea? Or we have a bottle of sherry left over from the ham, if this calls for something stronger.”

“Ana,” Jarvis says, sounding vaguely scandalized. “Cooking sherry?”

“Tea is fine,” Jack mutters. Another day, he’d probably be entertained by the pair of them, Jarvis’s fussing and his wife’s breezy cheer, the way they seem to fit together like a perfect pair of unlikely puzzle pieces. Right now, watching it just makes him want to hit something.

“Tea it is.” She dumps the remains of the shattered cup in the garbage, fills another cup, and places it in front of him. She perches on the edge of the table and cocks her head, bird-like. “This is difficult for you, yes?”

“Ana,” Jarvis says quietly.

“Hush, Edwin. No man wants to watch his beloved marry someone else, but it is worse if you cannot tell anyone.” She reaches for Jack’s hand and squeezes it between both of hers. Her skin is soft and cool, her fingers delicate, but there’s strength there all the same. “Mr. Sousa is a lovely man, as well.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack says. His voice feels strangled and tight. “They deserve each other.”

“They do,” Jarvis says. There’s a warning in his voice that Jack would have to be deaf not to hear, but what the hell does the man think he’s going to do, lay one on Daniel in front of everybody? If he thought that would get him anything he wants, he woulda tried it years ago.

Daniel’s in love, and he’s happy, and Jack will gain exactly nothing by publicly revealing just how damaged he is. Whatever dumb fantasies he might have been entertaining back at the bar. He’s got plenty of experience reining in his dumb fantasies where Daniel is concerned.

He could tell the Jarvises that, but he’s already spilled his guts plenty tonight, and there’s no reason to sit here and grind salt into the wound when he’s got a perfectly good bottle of Scotch waiting for him at home. “Thanks for the tea,” he says instead. “But I really oughta get that cab.”

“It is the least we could do,” Mrs. Jarvis says gently, and lets go of his hand.

Jarvis is silent for a long moment, then stands. “I’ll call the cab.”

His footsteps echo out of the room, leaving the pair of them in silence. For lack of anything better to do, Jack takes a tentative sip of his tea. There’s no sugar in it, and the bitterness seems to coat the surface of his tongue.

* * *

He was hoping to make it out the door without running into the happy couple, but of course he has no such luck. Daniel and Peggy are on the steps, taking turns carefully embracing a tiny, stooped woman in a voluminous shawl. When Daniel lets go of her, she reaches up, pinches his cheeks with what looks like considerable force, and says something he can’t follow in a language that he’s guessing is Portuguese. It makes Daniel blush cherry-red and whisper a shocked _“Nana!”_

She cackles delightedly and releases him, allows the towheaded young man beside her (a cousin, maybe) to escort her gently to her waiting car.

Peggy laughs, clear and bright, turning back toward the house, and that’s when she sees Jack standing there on the steps. “Jack!” she calls. “You’re not leaving already?”

“Duty calls, Marge.”

She perks at that. “Oh? Is there a case?”

“It’s your _wedding day_ , Agent Carter, you can take some time off for a change.” She raises her eyebrows at him, and he sighs. “No, there’s not a case. I just didn’t get enough sleep last night and I gotta be in at the crack of dawn.”

“Must be tough, being so important,” Daniel says, but there’s no real sting in it. There’s still color high in his cheeks, and his hair is starting to curl in the dampness. Jack’s fingers itch to tousle it, and he shoves his hands resolutely into his pockets.

“Hey, somebody’s gotta do it.”

“Well,” Daniel says, looping an arm around Peggy’s shoulders and smiling the smile of a lovestruck fool, “at least for tonight, I’m glad that somebody is you.”

“Yeah, well.” Jack hauls a smirk onto his face with some effort. “Congratulations. You kids have fun, I think that’s my cab right there.”

Peggy lets go of Daniel and wraps her arms around him. It’s awkward—Peggy is not a hugging person, and neither is he, and they’ve never really had that kind of relationship—but sincere enough. He can smell cordite under the sweetness of her perfume, like she spent some time at the gun range before getting into her wedding dress. That’s actually not the least bit unlikely, knowing Peggy, and the thought makes him smile.

“Thank you for coming,” she says, releasing him.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

He takes a step back—and then Daniel’s there, soft-edged and limned in lamplight. There’s still a bit of a flush high in his cheeks, and Jack can’t read his expression. “What, no hug for me?”

Jack swallows. “You want a hug, Sousa?”

“If you’re giving ‘em out.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Peggy’s eyebrows lift, and it probably ain’t the best idea but he can’t see any way out without prolonging the agony. He wraps an arm around Daniel’s shoulders and tugs him in close.

Daniel is warm, radiating heat through his uncharacteristically well-tailored suit. He smells faintly of aftershave and pomade, and when their cheeks bump briefly, his skin is slightly rough with the prickles of a new beard. Jack squeezes his eyes shut for a single, selfish moment, fixing the feel of it in his memory, and then he thumps Daniel on the shoulder and steps back, smiling. “Congratulations, you two.”

“Thank you, Jack,” Daniel says. There’s still something unreadable in his face.

A horn honks. Jack takes another step back, tips his hat. “Well, good night. Enjoy the honeymoon, and try not to get into too much trouble.”

He turns on his heel and crosses the street without another word, and neither of them try to call him back.

**Author's Note:**

> I can also be found on [Tumblr.](http://glorious-spoon.tumblr.com/) If you enjoyed this story, please take a moment to let me know!


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